Something Wicked
by scrapbullet
Summary: Heroes crossover. A certain someone comes out to play with Dean, body and mind. Contains rape and dark themes.


Disclaimer; Supernatural and the characters portrayed there-in are the property of their respective companies and actors. In other words, I own absolutely nothing. Crossover with _Heroes,_ and contains dark themes. You have been warned.

Something Wicked

Daybreak, and this is when Dean begins to notice that something is off, whether it's the heavy, indistinct scent in the air – that catches his nose and tickles his nostrils to sneezing-point – or the general feeling of unease that grabs at his bones, in short, Dean isn't quite sure of the cause. Regardless, it puts him on edge.

"Hey, Sammy... getcha ass moving. We should've skipped town hours ago." Nudging the pile of blankets encasing his brother, Dean can't exactly explain the feeling that drifts around him like a dense fog... only that he wants to skip town as soon as possible. "Sammy... ass, move, NOW." And with a grumble, his brother pulls himself out of bed and stomps around the tiny, dank motel room with all the grace of a shit-eating zombie.

Once out on the road, however, Sam slips into a deep slumber, and not even the heavy thud of Metallica can awaken him. Dean tries not to let this worry him... not at all, he knows Sammy needs his rest, for the two Winchesters are undoubtedly weary to the bone, wearing their exhaustion like a damn badge of honour, so he doesn't begrudge his little brother some snooze-time.

Darkness falls, and the long, dusty stretch of road is never-ending. Leaving behind an all too brief stop by a roadside diner behind them, Dean all too happily puts his foot down, idly tapping his fingers along the steering wheel to some unheard beat, and still the younger Winchester sleeps on. Indeed, Sam hadn't even deemed his stomach necessary to wake up and chow down. "Sam? You gonna wake up or am I gonna have to shove your jacket in your mouth?"

Silence.

"Well. Alright then."

The motel Dean picks for the night isn't exactly what you'd call liveable. But it's a roof over their heads and a warm bed to sleep in. Unwilling to awaken Sam from his day of rest, however disturbing that fact is, he hefts his brother inside after procuring a room, dumps him unceremoniously onto the tatty duvet and promptly passes out on his own bed. If he thinks that it's strange that Sam sleeps so soundly, so deathly still without a mouse-peep out of his cursed visions, Dean makes no move to voice it.

And so, deeming it well to sleep soundly himself, Dean slips into his own slumber, deep and full of dreams.

- - - - - - - - - -

A sharp scent tickles at his nose; sweat and heat. In his state – in that place between sleeping and waking – Dean only stirs, frowning, hoping to turn his head away from the smell and from the heaviness that stoops over him. Fingers trail over his chest, bare except for the softly muted kiss of humid air, fingers as hot as the sun, fingers that pause to brush against nipples that become taut. Breathing becomes difficult, for Dean feels like he's burning from the inside out, and it's this that causes him to awaken... that and the fact that his arms are stretched up and out, shackled to the bedposts with ease.

Dean croaks. "Sammy? What... What's going on?"

"Nothing, Dean. Just relax, yeah?"

"Well it's kinda hard when you've got me trussed up like a turkey."

The low laugh that bubbles up from Sams' lips trickles along his spine and pools in his gut, making him feel oddly nauseous. "Hush, Dean. Let me have my fun. Well, you might even come to enjoy it."

Dean almost expects to see a subtle flash of something otherworldly, but the warm depths of his brothers' eyes have given way to ice, and his hands – rough from years of war – aren't gentle as they roam across the expanse of his chest. Hot fingers pluck at Deans' nipples until he moans unashamedly, cheeks flushed red and his breath heavy. Sam pauses, before his lips drag a harsh line straight down to bite at the vulnerable softness of underbelly. Panic comes to the fore of Deans mind, making his heart thump wildly in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his very veins.

"I know this is what you've always wanted, big brother, isn't it? You've always wanted this; my hands, my lips... my dick." Sam murmurs, and it's as if he's looking directly into Deans' soul. Through it all, through the thick matter of his brain and past all those memories and deep into the heart of his desires. Desires so well kept that not even Daddy Winchester himself knew of them, and Dean finds himself ashamed. Why? For those lips, puffing breath indecently across the sharp angle of hip, causes arousal to spike through him, unwilling.

"You're not Sam. You can't be... Sam wouldn't... he doesn't..."

"Doesn't what? Doesn't know?" Lips twist into a vicious smile, all predator gazing at his prey. "Well, you'd be right about that, little man." A fist cuffs playfully against Deans chin, and suddenly the man sitting perched upon his legs isn't Sammy at all. Soft brown waves and a cleft chin give way to pale skin and darkness, though the eyes... those eyes maintain that texture of ice, frost, embedded beneath the amusement.

"Poor little Dean Winchester, harbouring illicit thoughts for his brother." Sylar murmurs, hands grasping at Deans jaw to tilt his head this way and that. "Though I suppose you're attractive... in a way." Crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss, Dean can taste blood along with an inherent bitterness. Dark and sickly, like treacle it drips down his throat and dulls the senses whilst amplifying others, the barest touch to his skin causing helpless moan upon helpless moan to pour from his lips.

"Asshole... what've you done to Sam!" All anger and taut muscles, struggling to the end despite the gooseflesh which rises on his skin, sensitive.

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out." Calm and collected, Sylar needs not his hands to strip them both of their remaining clothing. All he needs is the subtle nuances of his power, power which he so easily demonstrates upon the squirming, enraged Dean. "Tut tut Dean. Calm down or I may just have to hurt you."

It all gives way to shadows, wide palms mocking as they smooth along his thighs, almost soothing. And yet, the inky quality swallows up his vision, straining for some semblance of light and all Sylar does is murmur words of comfort laced with amusement. All for the murderers own needs, of course, for as soon as Deans body relaxes, however unwilling, the pain comes.

It rips a scream from his lips, back arching, his nerve-endings on fire. The scent of smouldering flesh fills the air, acrid, and if he could see, then the letters branded into the flesh of his inner thigh would horrify him. Instead Dean can feel only the pain, tears dripping down his cheeks unheeded and gasping for breath.

"There, there," Sylar murmurs, "you're mine now, you see?"

The burns do little to prepare him for this humiliation. The blunt head of a cock pressing against his entrance leaves him with such fear that he barely has a thought for this weakness, that if Dad miraculously returned from the grave to offer salvation that he'd be ashamed for his eldest son giving in so easily. And as if Sylar can read his mind, he murmurs sweet nothings into Deans' ears, hot and dirty, words of shame.

Blood eases the way, the fit too tight and in the end... in the end Dean gives in. Not to the monster above him, filling him with an essence so dirty that he ultimately tastes bile in his mouth. No, he remains distant and detached, until the void that swallows him up leaves its sticky fingers along his flesh, pulling him down into the abyss and holding him under as he drowns.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Dean?"

The sound... distorted and misshapen. Pulled under, Dean can only lift his head briefly and breathe in the thick ichor, filling his lungs with its poison.

_"Dean?"_

If he could just... just break the surface, he could breathe in the sweetness of the air... if only he could do just that, then maybe... just maybe...

_"Dean?"_

The tendrils wrap around him, too strong, and despite the distant sound of that voice, perfect in its familiarity, Dean just can't overcome it.

_"Dean?"_

So he lets himself go.


End file.
